Over the ocean, the radar picked up a faint pulse.
A blinking dot.
Weak.
But steady.
“We’re entering restricted airspace,” the younger pilot warned.
“Hold altitude,” I said. “Stay smooth.”
The dot grew stronger.
“Ma’am,” he said, voice trembling now. “We’re close.”
“Visual scan,” I ordered.
The external camera feed flickered.
Then the ocean below showed a dull metallic shape under the surface.
Broken.
Rusted.
But unmistakable.
A fuselage.
“Zoom in,” I said.
The image sharpened through distortion.
A fighter jet, half-buried in coral like a grave.
I felt my chest tighten.
I recognized the number even through the blur.
“Eagle Three,” I whispered.
My wingman.
My brother in the sky.
The younger pilot swallowed. “That mission was years ago. How can anything still be—”
The radio crackled.
A voice, broken and thin, like it was crawling through water and time.
“…Falcon One? If you hear this…”
